


Stairwell Solitude

by citrusella



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: (just in case... i tried to put it in a vague in between but i'm not sure i was successful), Episode: s06e15 Mr. Universe, Estrangement, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Letters, Stairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusella/pseuds/citrusella
Summary: Over ten years, Greg wrote just six letters to his parents. What could they have contained?
Relationships: Greg Universe & Greg's Parents
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73
Collections: lofi fanfics to practice social distancing to





	Stairwell Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Something about this fic feels off (other than the fact I wanted to have someone curse in one spot but I'm too innocent for that so it stayed as its non-curse version). IDK what, but I went over this so many times that for all I know it's just the good old "writer vibe".
> 
> Parts of this fic contain copious amounts of strikethrough text. If for any reason this affects your understanding of the fic (IDK, it reads very confusingly to you, you're accessing the fic using a screen reader and it speaks it weird, etc.), please let me know and I'll try to see if there's a way to rectify it and keep the right vibe.

Upon returning from her ~~and her husband's~~ timeshare, Susan's first indication that anything is amiss _should_ be that the drawer of Ernest's desk— _that_ drawer of his desk—is ajar.

But instead, she doesn't notice anything until she feels something under her feet while climbing to the second story that she knows, from years of treading these steps, is not part of the runner.

She sniffs, heads to her room, places her bags neatly on the quilt her mother provided as a wedding gift, and returns to the stairwell.

As she bends down, she offers a smirk to the world, smugly relieved that the arthritis hit her sister Jean but benevolently skipped her.

It's the letters from Greg. Because of course it is. He comes every so often, takes something out of his room. They had known for years, left his room the way it was just so they would know if something big changed or disappeared, so they could talk about it in amusement over their meatloaf.

Today just must have been the day he finally wandered out of that mess of a room and into the house at large.

Her finger hovers over her purse, but then she jerks her head to the side and sneers to a photograph on the wall, "Well, of course you'd want to leave 'em sealed, you old coot! I'm not you!"

She sounds angry. She's not. It's simply the "Demayo tone", the instantly confrontational voice everyone in the family tree seems to have—blood, married, or adopted.

Ernest may be dead, but one of his defining characteristics has stuck around to haunt the place.

In one straight-laced motion, she reaches into her purse, pulls out her pocketbook, and retrieves her Disservice Merchandise letter opener—a reward for 40 years with the company, before it closed a few years back—from its designated pocket, placing the pocketbook to her side.

She hovers a minute on the letter with the oldest postmark, from late '92, the year he left, the only one with a clearly fake return address. Is she sure?

A barely perceptible nod—whatever absurd words are present in their contents might as well be out in the open at this point instead of gathering dust in a drawer.

She huffs and drags the blade across the envelope top.

* * *

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Demayo,

I know you haven't seen me since the harvest celebration. I thought you should know I'm not coming back. Don't try to find me. Don't try to contact me. Don't try to control me.

Sincerely,  
Greg Demayo

* * *

Hrmph. Typical. The boy was ungrateful, couldn't understand things done for his own good, for the wellbeing, the _reputation_ of the family. Couldn't give elders their proper respect, call them by mother and father like a _good_ kid.

Done with it after scarcely more than a minute of holding it, she casts it aside and righteously opens the next, early '93, his first addressed from outside West Keystone.

* * *

Mom and Dad,

Okay, look. I am over refusing to act like I'm related to you, in a practical sense. But still, I'm not coming back. You pushed things and did things that I just couldn't live up to. Most kids couldn't live up to. And in the name of what? Being successful? What's success without being happy? Being a proper Demayo?

Maybe I don't want to be a Demayo. I don't want to be connected to you anymore. I want to be who I am, who you never wanted to let me be. I dropped out of community college a month ago and I'm going on tour as a musician with Marty. I know the whole family doesn't like him, but this is who I am and you can get used to that or kiss my behind.

I'm Greg Universe now. I'm gonna make it official. I can acknowledge my parents were Demayos, but that doesn't mean I have to be one.

Your son,  
Greg

* * *

She rolls her eyes, barely gives it a reaction. A good mother can be glad her kid came around on one point of respect while being _infuriated_ with the next show of disrespect, but she had reacted to the name change awhile ago, when the letters started coming with "Universe" in the return. It don't need to be paid any mind a second time.

Third letter doesn't come until almost four years later, November 1996. First from the Delmarva PO Box. She remembers it well: it'd showed up the day of the harvest dinner, as if he _knew_ , and so she'd hidden it away in the drawer quick, keeping it from the prying eyes of those family members—say, Deb—who might be nosy enough to butt in where they don't belong and ask questions.

* * *

Mom and Dad,

You were right. Marty did suck and I just didn't want to consider that an option. ~~But you were w~~ ~~You need to know~~ I'm still working on music and I don't care what you think of that. But I think I'm going to stick near this address. I can't promise I'll be anywhere close to happy to receive something from you (with my luck, you probably aren't even opening them, maybe that's for the better), but I'm not gonna go into hiding if you send me something. I guess.

Greg

* * *

Wordlessly, she sits it aside. After a brief titter at his knowing his parents well enough to know they hadn't opened his mail since he'd disappeared, she considers the letter's contents—the dropping of Marty, the sticking near one address instead of some cockamamie tour schedule. …Maybe he had come to his senses.

She knew the music career wouldn't work out, the boy had eyes bigger than his brain. Ernest thought as much too, but his words were far more… _choice_.

It was stupid, plain and simple. Didn't need other words for it. You don't throw away a sure shot for a pipe dream. Their plan was the sure shot. His was the pipe dream. They could have cracked down more, done _some_ thing to get it through his thick head—

Ugh. Why blame herself, or Ernest, for something that was Greg's fault? She turns up her nose for just a second before turning it and the rest of her face down to the half-empty envelope pile.

Another letter. Two years later. Same address.

* * *

Dear Mom and Dad,

I thought you should know I met someone. We've been dating for about two years. Her name is Rose. You would probably hate her, she loves Earth and people and freedom and stuff and she gets what it's like to have awful family. She'd probably even give you a chance, too. That's how amazing she is. I love her and I'm really serious about her. I dunno ~~when~~ if I'll write again. Probably if something big happens.

Greg

* * *

Her nose crinkles, causing her eyes to narrow.

Huh. So he settled down. Got into a relationship. With a _woman_ , at that.

Surprising, but not impossible, she supposes.

If it were anyone but Greg, she'd bet money on the next letter, the one from November of '99, being him telling her about a wedding or a kid or something.

Anyone but Greg would settle down after finding a girlfriend.

* * *

Dear Mom and Dad,

Rose and I are having a kid.

* * *

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap. Nope. That boy can't raise a kid. He can't. Would probably drop it on its head or something. Nope.

No, no, no.

She keeps reading.

* * *

We don't know if the baby will be a boy or a girl yet, but we don't really care. Rose, especially, is excited about the new experience of it all—the only thing she can talk about is how our baby's going to be a beautiful, growing, changing human being with every possibility ahead of them. The way she talks about it is so beautiful, and I can't wait to raise whoever arrives in July or August with all the important things you somehow were never able to give me.

Greg

* * *

Oh, geez. All the "important things"? They gave him food! A roof over his head! Clothes and vacations and education and that ungrateful little—!

That boy wasn't ready to have a kid. Didn't understand what it _meant_ , what it took _out_ of the _parents_ , the _control_ it required—both that involved with closely monitoring what came into the kid's life _and_ that required to hold oneself back if their kid took it a bridge too far—

Her eyes squint as they land on the last letter. August 28, 2000. It's thicker than the others, as if it takes up more than a single sheet of paper.

She rips it open, letter opener forgotten. The sheets inside are filled with a more haphazard scrawl than normal, the writing smudged with… tears? Was Greg— _her_ son— _crying_?

Eeurgh. Best get this over with, then.

* * *

Dear Mom and Dad,

Steven is here. He's been here about a week. Born August 15. He's got my eyes. It's hard to tell if he has Mom's cheeks or Rose's… they're similar enough that it probably doesn't matter, but I think I'd rather say they were Rose's, regardless, since ~~it'd be~~ ~~she~~ ~~something hap~~ ~~she's gone~~

Rose is no longer with us. ~~She tu~~ ~~d~~ We lost her in childbirth. She didn't let on to me that it was going to be that serious, but I think she knew. Beforehand, I mean. It's something about the way she acted these past months, and the night Steven was born. She would have loved to see him, the way he's growing even though it's only been a few days. Steven is a real special baby. He's beautiful and just like her and only fussy when he really needs something and he's less than a week old but it feels like he's taking in everything. I have never loved anyone or anything more. Maybe not even Rose.

But it's hard. Already. I gotta give you guys a hand. There was a lot you didn't do for me, a lot you messed up. And like I said before, I'm going to give him those things you didn't give me, the freedom to be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do, eat what he wants to eat. To be loved, without the conditions you two always seemed to have. But I have to admit that at least you didn't let me die, kept me fed and all that. I didn't realize it was so hard. I'm doing a lot of talking with a friend, Vidalia, about how she's raised her son. The dad's a deadbeat, split before he was born, so she's a pro at doing things on her own. It's helpful. She's part of why I even got anywhere close to feeling ~~ready~~ able to do this.

I haven't slept a whole lot in the past few days. Part of that is Steven keeping me up (I'm trying to sleep when he does, like the books say, but it's harder than it sounds), part of it is me still trying to get through Rose being gone. Her ~~fa~~ ~~si~~ ~~w~~ friends, or one of her friends, anyway— ~~Ga~~ ~~Ru~~ ~~Sa~~ Sapphire—said we'd find a way to hold some kind of memorial before too long, but I've been too busy to hear or contribute any plans. I don't know what they have in mind.

* * *

The next part is in another color, as if he put it away for a bit, lost the pen, and chose to use a new one, even though that's the kind of thing he knows her and Ernest would rightly call him sloppy for.

* * *

This part is hard for me put on paper, but I ~~think you should~~ ~~I wouldn't be against~~ so many parts of me want so much to keep Steven from you, to say that you can never see him, but I figured it's been so long. Maybe you've changed. Maybe you haven't. But either way, I can't bring myself to not give you the chance to meet Steven. If you want. It's on you to make the first move. It's not like I'm gonna call you or show up with Steven one day. If you want to see him, you have to write to me. I won't accept any other contact without a letter first. I am not visiting your house, and you are not coming to mine. We'll meet somewhere neutral. If you're even interested in meeting. If you're even reading this at all.

Steven's crying and I think I've written about as much as I can think to tell you. The offer's on the table. After this, I'm not sending another letter to another lack of response. I'm too busy being a dad now to put in that sort of energy if you don't even care.

Proud dad,  
Greg Universe

* * *

Accompanying the letter are two Solaroid pictures. In one, he is with a nearly impossibly tall woman— _must be Rose_ , Susan thinks, nonplussed, as she takes in the inappropriate dress and the dyed pink curls—the two looking lovingly into each other's eyes. He looks the happiest she's ever seen him. She just can't understand why.

In the second, clearly posed and taken specifically to be included with the letter, he sits stiffly, slightly balding, on a dirty, faded thulite pink couch, a scuffed-up coffee table before him. Discomfort and worry are etched across his face, as if he's unsure about… what? The photo? His letter, maybe? In his arms, a serene newborn, calm as if his whole world is the man who cradles him, as if he doesn't yet know that man is a total mess.

He looks more than a little like Greg did at that age, albeit with more hair, and a controlled sigh emerges from deep within her as she puts the final correspondence down beside her.

She sits on the stairs for a long while after that. Eyes the picture of Ernest, her, and Greg, eyes the envelopes, eyes a wrinkle in the runner she'll have to flatten out—

And then, wordlessly, she places each letter back in its designated envelope. Puts her letter opener back in her pocketbook, puts her pocketbook back in her purse. With a sniff and a stiff lip, she stands, walks down the stairs, and places the letters back in the drawer, closing it with a quiet but firm thump.

That's enough of that.

**Author's Note:**

> And then a few months later, a letter from one "Steven Universe" addressed from "The Beach" in Beach City arrives and she just... puts it in the drawer. Nope. Not reading it.


End file.
